


Why him?

by black_cottoncandy



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Drinking, Drugs, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Light Angst, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27332650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_cottoncandy/pseuds/black_cottoncandy
Summary: Maybe, if only you could sort things out, everything would appear clearer. If only you could find the right order to put things into.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Why him?

**Author's Note:**

> see notes at the end, please

There you are. Miserable, desperate looking. Even someone who doesn’t know you at all and sees you for the first time could tell that there’s something wrong. Even more than just a little “something”. ‘Cause frankly you’re a whole mess. And you hate it. You hate looking like this, and more than everything you hate feeling like this. But what’s this, huh? Is it anger? Or is it guilt? Is it hating someone or missing someone?

You’re alone in your bed. Or someone’s bed. For what you know it could be yours, some friend’s, some bird’s or a mental hospital one. Not that you know, or care. Maybe it should be a wake-up call, the fact that you’re so fucking high that you can’t even remember how you got here. But somehow you still don’t care. It’s just that nothing seems to matter anymore lately. You chuckle. You don’t realize how dumb you must look in this moment, with your face deformed by _God-knows-what-you-have-taken_ and this new smirk on your lips. But to you it’s bloody funny, because only a few months ago that blonde, fat, talentless twat was screaming that all you could do was think about yourself. If only he could see you now, he would be laughing too at how wrong he was. _You were not the selfish one_ : you don’t care about yourself anymore. It doesn’t matter if you’re still breathing, still existing, still alive.

But now, what? You’re starting to feel nervous? You should have seen that coming, though. It happens every time that face appears in your mind, looking so real that you swear (and wish) you could punch it. The only points of connection with reality are memories, and they make you feel bloody sick. Mainly because when memories hit you, you start to think. And that makes your mind a crowded place, more than it already is. Maybe, if only you could sort things out, everything would appear clearer. If only you could find the right order to put things into. But everything happened in a _blur_ , you can’t even figure out if it was all extremely fast or slow-mo. Many things still don’t make sense and they’re still there in your mind, haunting you. No matter how much you drink, they’re never gonna drown.

You try to think of the _last_ time. When you left. Always looking at you like a fucking child, they didn’t even bother to take you seriously just for once, when they should have known that was the last time you would’ve made them laugh. Yet they were, sure about their decision, brainwashed by _Nigel_. That thought alone is enough to make you shiver so you focus on something else. There is one question stuck in your head. Why Jason?

I mean, you would’ve expected it to come from Gary, Nigel himself, or even Howard. But why him?

You bet Gary would’ve been fucking happy to tell you the news. Gary who never missed the chance to remind you that it was _his_ band, that you were a stupid back-up singer and one day, if the band had broken up, he would’ve been the most successful one. _Poor deluded_. The band didn’t even last the time required to write a proper album. After you left everything was falling apart. Now what, Gary? Where is our special Captain? _Y’all bloody needed me_ , you think grinning like an idiot, recalling the last press conference, the same day as your birthday, because the fucker had to steal the scene from you one last time. Yes, definitely: Gary would’ve been the most willing to tell you to leave. Yet he wasn’t the one.

Howard. Well, he was fucking lost without the band. God, he was almost thirty and still as excited as that one weird geeky guy in every school project group putting all his energy into it. For what you know he could be almost forty now and still be doing all that dancing stuff, or maybe he has become a stripper if he still has the body. You chuckle. He was so attached to the band and unprepared for it to end that he would’ve done everything possible to save it, even kick you out and tell you to leave if necessary. But he didn’t.

You think of Mark. Little Markie, _your buddy._ You miss him sometimes. Being around him was easy, it almost felt like you could just let go of everything: you didn’t have to compete, you didn’t have to fight for your place, you didn’t have to please him or control yourself. He was just there for you, you don’t even know why exactly. Always kind, always down for a laugh, so grateful for his career that nothing seemed to bother him, he was happy with what he had. Maybe he was almost afraid to ask for more, even though you know he deserved it. When you tried to explain that you had ambitions, that you felt like you had something more to give to the band, if only Nigel ad his _oh!sodear_ Gary would’ve listened to you, just for once, he didn’t seem to understand you. Nobody could though. Nobody ever even tried, because surviving in that constant battle was more important than anything else.

And that last thought seemed to be very important to Jason. He knew that. What a treacherous thing to do, _huh_? Kicking you out in order to desperately please Nigel, to appear in a good light. Jesus Christ, how wretched was that? And then what did he expect? A line in a song? Well if that was it, then he didn’t succeed. You swear there are fans who’ve never even heard how his voice sounds like.

So, there you stand, still on the bed, frozen, while those thoughts are racing at 200 km/h in your mind. You’re not even sure they’re worth bothering, or at least that’s what you try to tell yourself. But somehow your brain always leads you there, even if you don’t want to. You hate how little control you have on it, but you can’t do anything about it, about anything, really.

You close your eyes, hoping that sleep will take over even though you don’t even know what time of the day is.

You stay still, your breath slows down. ‘ _Fuck, he looks dead_ ’, someone might say from the outside.

_Ha, they should see on the inside_.

**Author's Note:**

> Right, this is my very first story so please be gentle lmao  
> The most important thing is: English IS NOT my FIRST language, so writing a long story (at least for me it’s long) was very challenging. If I made grammar or spelling mistakes please feel free to tell me so I can improve :)  
> Also, I’m now starting to know the band and the dynamics between them so there might be some things seen by my personal point of view  
> Again, feel free to interact


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